


Pax Vobiscum Di

by Sildominarin



Category: Cadfael Chronicles - Ellis Peters
Genre: Child Death, Execution, Execution of a Child, Father-Son Relationship, Guilt, Medieval Justice, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:35:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sildominarin/pseuds/Sildominarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a young man, Cadfael would never have believed that the simplicity of the monastic life could bring any kind of peace. Now, older and wiser, he hopes to pass that serenity on to another who sorely needs it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pax Vobiscum Di

**Author's Note:**

> The Invitatory in italics is called Deum Verum, and a lovely rendition can be found [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=kK5AohCMX0U).

_"Deum verum, unum in Trinitáte, et Trinitátem in Unitáte,  Veníte, adorémus."_

_  
_The Abbey of Saint Peter and Paul was a unique place at dusk. The large chapel was awash in the light of a hundred flickering candles, each casting back the shadows that heralded a coming night. Many of the pews were empty-not uncommon for Compline this deep into the winter months- and there was more then one brother abent from their lines that night with a terrible cough. Brother Edmund's presence was barely below miraculous, for he had been spending every waking hour with his charges in the infirmatory.  Others had equally pressing taks ahead of them before total darkness and propriety banished them to their beds, while still more were eager simply for a bed after a series of exhuasting-not to mention freezing- days. Even Abbot Radolphus, stern and impressing before them, seemed unaccustamarily weary.

Cadfael pitied them all. Even as he stood in his position, adding his voice to the songs that echoed around them, he could not help but worry. There were a dozen or more concoctions brewing in his workshop, most with a particular patient or ailment in mind, and he was eager to return to his self appointed tasks. He would also spend a few hours in the infirmary that night, dosing and nursing those who required more attention then Edmund and his overworked staff could manage. And tomorrow his duties would call him into the town, for similiar duties among those citizens who had come to him for help or advice. Winters were harsh on the less fortunate, and those with no other option sought refuge where ever they could.

Not dissimiliar, the old benedictine mused silently to himself, to what the abbey attended now. The youngest novices were not required to attent Compline in the deep winter months, and in light of illness and toil Radolphus had left it to the individual conscious of the brotherhood as to who might attend the last mass of the day. And yet so many of their order stood or knelt in their normal places, lifting their voices into the familiar invitatory.

_"Veníte, exsultémus Dómino, jubilémus Deo, salutári nostro,præoccupémus fáciem ejus in confessióne, et in psalmis jubilémus ei."_

The words themselves were Latin, ancient and heavy in their cadence. And yet, to Cadfael, they seemed to soar around and above them, echoing about the rafters before ascending onwards to heaven. For in that brief moment, it seemed as though all his worries and fears were equally set to wing, lifted from him by invisible hands, whose strength could not be matched by humankind. And in that instant, though he did not know the full meaning of the passages they gave voice to, the brother felt the words move within in. They brought within him a strange peace, a certainty of the love of the Lord to whom Cadfael had devoted so much.

It was that same comfort that had settled over him so many years ago, a younger man returned from the Holy Lands with more scars and less honors then he had ever imagined. The woman he had loved had wed another, and as he had knelt in the small chapel in Shropshire, only a few hours released from Maduit's service, and very much fearing that he had nothing to show for those twenty years spent riding by the cross. But -the then Prior- Heribert had taken pity on a lost soul and, while no doubt driven in some part by gratitude, had brought the man back to the Abbey.

And how odd it was, to think that the hymns that had once bored and confused him might bring such comfort as they did now, and to so many.

_"Quóniam Deus magnus Dóminus, et Rex magnus super omnes deos ,quóniam non repéllet Dóminus plebem suam , quia in manu ejus sunt omnes fines terræ, et altitúdines móntium ipse cónspicit."_

But not, alas, to all. Movement in the back of the chapel caught Cadfael's eye, and he watched in silent concern as Hugh Beringar slipped in through the door and settled gingerly into a pew. The herbalist could tell even from a distance that the younger man's hunched form and closed features were not sprung from the bitter weather still lingering around Maesbury, for all that snow still clung to the man's cloak and jerkin. No, a colder sorrow lay closer to his friend's bones, and not one that any remedy of Cadfael's could erase.

Unlike Welsh law, which recognized various levels of crimes up to and including murder, the English law held no such distinctions. Murder was murder, and was to be punished accordingly. And as Deputy Sheriff of Shropshire, such a task as theinvestigation and  punishment for that crime was his responsibility when Gilbert Prestcott was called away from Shrewsbury. Hugh tookhis duties and responsibilities seriously, but as such too often bore the brunt of his own conscience when the law contradicted his own personal beliefs. And Cadfael knew with a heavy heart that this latest trial plucked more firmly on his friend's soul then any had for some time.

There had been a young man, barely more then a boy, who had lived and worked as farmhand to John Peters, on a section of land not far from Godric's Ford. The lad had no family left in the world, and none precious to him save a hound of remarkable affection and loyalty. And it was perhaps that single friendship, and the knowledge that without it his world would be even more bleak and empty, that had pricked the boy into attacking his master when the man had-in a drunken fit- had slain the animal as punishment for some imagined slight. But in his rage the boy had dealt death for death, leaving his master as broken and bleeding as the man had left the hound.

In normal circumstances, the crown might be persuaded to be merciful to a child, particularly given the unfortunate circumstances. But that lad had been deemed too old for such leniency, and the widow of the slain man had demanded all avaliable justice under the law. And Cadfael knew all to well that the boy's death- delivered that very night on the gallows- would be on the forefront of Hugh's mind. And, worse yet, it would cast a pallor over his friend's heart, like a cloak of blackened guilt that belonged anywhere else.

 

  _"Grates repéndet débitas. Deo Patri sit glória, Natóque Patris único, Cum Spíritu Paráclito, In sempitérna sæcula.  Amen."_

_  
_The last of the invitatory faded, and Cadfael crossed himself in time with the rest of the brothers. Some would stay for a brief time, to speak amongst themselves or with the abbot or Prior Robert, but there were thankfully none that needed the monk's attention as he made his way through the rows of pews to where Hugh sat. The younger man rested elbows on his knees, spine bent in a long bow and head cradled in hands that- to the older benedictine's surprise and sudden worry- seemed to shake ever so slightly. He seemed almost unaware that themass hadended--indeed, the Deputy Sheriff startled badly when the older man laid a hand on his shoulder. Troubled eyes met a compassionate stare, and Hugh's self depricating scowl turned softer under it.

"Cadfael. I thought your other duties might call you away tonight."

"No, though had you come during Matins you would have found me absent. There is too much a demand for syrups and potions, and not enough of me to meet it."

"I'm surprised you did not leave Brother Oswin to attend them while you are here."

Cadfael opened his mouth, indignant, and then shook his head with a rueful chuckle at the half smirk on his friend's tired face. "I would sooner climb down a well then I would leave the boy alone with my winter stock, diligent though he may be." The knot of brothers at the front of the chapel began to disperse, and the older monk nodded toward the door. "Let us retreat to my workshop for a time, or I will find myself in a drawn out conversation with Brother Edmund when I have cures to tend. And you look in need of a draught or two yourself."

"I doubt even yourskill have a cure for my ills at present, brother."

"Let me have final say on that point.

                                                                                                  xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

There was a stoppered jug of new wine that had been left against the outer wall of the workshop to cool in the night air, and Cadfael poured two beakers full as he and Hugh took places around the cluttered work table. In the steadier light of fire and his working lantern, the benedictine could more accurately see the dark shadows crowding underneath the man's eyes. Weariness marred every move of the man, and there was a paleness to Hugh's complexion that the monk was slightly suspicious of it. Setting the wine onto one of the counters, Cadfael carried back the half loaf of bread and cheese that Oswin had brought and neither had eaten. Tearing off his own piece- all too aware that the deputy sheriff rarely ate either alone or unprompted-, Cadfael nodded toward the door.

"I wasn't expecting you to be here this late, Hugh. It's bitterly cold to be out if you don't need to be. Particularly if you are feeling under the weather."

The humourless smile that twisted Hugh's lips told the monk that his roundabout concern hadn't been quite subtle enough. "If you'd rather be rid of my presence, Cadfael, you need only say so. I'm not overly fond of myself right-"

"Do your ears need tending, my Lord Beringar? Because I don't remember saying that. I would, however, like to spare our Deputy Sheriff the experience of being carried down the road with a broken ankle again. I fear Giles would be jealous if you stole his favorite riding spot."

Hugh couldn't help but smile at the mention of the boy, and the grin was infectious. Cadfael took his duties as a godfather very seriously, and it was an amusing fact that, when young Giles came to visit the Abbey, that he rarely walked but was content to ride on the monk's shoulders. That, combined with the memory of only the previous winter when those broad shoulders had also carried Hugh himself after a nasty fall, was enough to expell at least some of the tension in the room.

And yet, it was all to quickly replaced by sorrow. Running a weary hand over his face, Hugh vented a weary sigh. "I wish he was here, Cadfael. Him and Aline both. I wouldn't want either of them to see these things, but...I wish they were here."

"Of course you do. There is no one in the world stronger then that girl, nor any man more blessed with a level headed wife. You two are a compliment to each other and heaven."

"She's my own miracle." Hugh sighed, taking a weary sip from the wine. "If it weren't so late, and I not alone, I'd ride to Maesbury tonight. " 

"Saints preserve us, I call it a miracle: Hugh Beringar, making a sound decision about his own safety."

"The only sound decision I've made today."

"Now, see here, we both know that those words are false-"

"He begged me, Cadfael!"

The words came from nowhere, exploding out from the prison that they had been trapped in. Hugh pushed himself up and away from the table, guilt and impotent rage evident in every stride. He was clearly a man at war with himself, and the monk noticed with a pang that the shaking had returned to his hand as it wiped across bloodless lips. And then, in another quickfire movement, he was facing Cadfael again.

"He begged me, Cadfael. A boy, facing the lost of the only thing he had held dear, the only thing he'd had left in the world, begged me for his life. Begged me, weeping and terrified, and I denied him, and sent him to his death. Do not-" he held up a hand as Cadfael opened his mouth to object, "try to tell me different-- I know full news of this must have reached the abbey long before I. You know that the boy acted out of anger and grief, and that  by all mercies in the world I should not have had to condemn him. And yet, the boy is dead, because I did not see fit to-"

"You did your duty, my Lord Beringar, and do not try to convince me otherwise!" Cadfael so rarely raised his voice in true anger, but now it soared away from his control. "I have seen your honor, Hugh, as I have seen your mercy and your kindness. And I above all know to what lengths you will push yourself to save another, when they are within rescue. Do not think that neither your dear wife or I do not remember your duel for the soul of a dead man and for justice, with no promise of reward or even success before you, nor of how many injuries we have tended to stop those who would harm others who truly deserve punishment." The monk's voice softened, as did his expression. "Do not ask us to doubt you, Hugh, neither your honor nor your mercy. For we never will, even if you doubt yourself."

The younger man froze for a long moment, his face a rictus of doubt and guilt and pain. Then that same face crumpled, ever so slightly, and Cadfael was at his side. More then one person had wept into those broad shoulders before, though no tears came this time. Hugh simply gripped tightly into the brown habit before him, and let the monk hold him tightly as he shook through the reaction of their outbursts. It helped immensley to know that, had the monk truly thought that Hugh had acted rashly or cruelly, he would have made it clear-- he had made no secrets of his doubts before. But if Cadfael still held faith in him, a man who truly hated this most final extent of justice, then perhaps he was less damned then his mind believed.

At long last, both men were calm enough to step apart, and the deputy sheriff felt suddenly the effects of a sleepless night and the following day with no food. He sat again at the table, grateful now for the  bread and wine, and looked in tired gratitude at the older man.

"I do not know what I have done to deserve so great a friend as you, Cadfael, but I will be grateful my whole life."

"No less then I, for all that you occasionally drive me to my wits end with your selflessness." But his smile took any sting out of the words. "No friend was ever so grateful or so proud as I am of you."  _No father, either_ , he added silently.  _For all that you are nothing of the kind, I hold you as dear to my heart as I do Olivier, and no doubt more._

Hugh ducked his head, shrugging slightly, though the pleasure on his face was not so easily hidden. "I suppose it would be poor payment to follow that with a request to steal your workshop for a night and avoid the ride back to the castle."

"So long as you understand the duties that follow, you are always welcome."

"I know your morning mixtures as well as scripture by now, Cadfael. A healthy dose of hemlock in everything, with nightshade for flavor."

"My most diligent student." Cadfael's voice was wry, but silently he breathed a sigh of relief, and prayer of thanksgiving. It was not always possible to pull Hugh from his odd boughts of guilt, and he was grateful for every chance to succeed. "I shall be magnanimous and not expect your presence at Vigil."  
  


"The soul of generosity." But Hugh smiled as he said it, and Cadfael returned it as he moved to the door. He was hardly though it, that the younger man spoke once more. "I will always be glad that you are so generous with your advice, my odd Benedictine."

The words were quiet, no doubt spoken for Hugh's benefit alone, and Cadfael did not stop. And yet it warmed the cockles of his soul, and once again the calmness and peace from the chapel once again poured through him. And life was, once again, content.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Literally translated, the title means 'May the peace be with you'.


End file.
